


Die of Nothing but a Rage to Live

by k_drake



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 11:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3119387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/k_drake/pseuds/k_drake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Warden thinks she has nothing else to lose, that she has given up everything in the battle against the Blight.  She is wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Die of Nothing but a Rage to Live

She awoke alone in a wash of sticky liquid.  There was no pain right then, just a feeling of helpless wetness.  She hadn’t realized at first what it was; she thought perhaps a waterskin had ruptured.  Then she realized it was coming from between her legs and was briefly humiliated, a feeling that quickly gave way to confusion and panic, for though it was too dark to see, she could smell the blood. 

She hadn’t bled since she’d left Highever, a few months ago.  A midwife she’d consulted in Redcliffe had assured her that this was normal.  “A woman’s body needs extra life force, if she is to have a monthly bleeding,” she said.  “Look at you, exhausted and underfed.  You have nothing to give, and your body knows this.”  Really, it was a relief not to have to worry about it.  Being a woman was so unpleasant and _messy_ sometimes.  Why now?  Where was this blood coming from, and in such quantity?  Something was wrong, and she needed help.  Normally, Alistair would have been with her, but she realized dimly that he must be outside, taking his turn keeping watch.  She yearned for her mother.  A couple of tears trickled down her cheeks as she struggled to rally.  _Mother is not coming_ , she told herself sternly.  _What can_ you _do right now?_   It occurred to her that Wynne would be able to help her.  Wrapping herself in the stained blanket, she stood up and eased outside. 

It was still dark, the stars concealed by low-hanging clouds, and she shivered in the predawn cold.  She didn’t see Alistair near the small fire burning in the center of their cluster of tents; he must be walking the perimeter of the camp.  Nausea seized her as she moved towards Wynne’s tent, and stars danced at the edge of her vision.  She needed to sit down, or else the choice would be made for her. 

"Elissa?”

“Alistair,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, immediately alarmed.  “What is it?” 

“Wynne,” she said.  “I need Wynne.” 

“What?  Why?  Wynne,” he called.  “Wynne, come quickly, come NOW.  Elissa is hurt!”

“No, shh.”  But it was too late.  Alistair’s call had roused Wynne, and everyone else besides.  Somehow, she made it into the tent, and the others crowded at the entrance, making concerned noises. 

“Stand back,” said Wynne, and fastened the tent in their faces.  The small space was illuminated by a pale, greenish light that made Elissa’s blood-slicked legs look streaked with tar. 

“Maker,” breathed Wynne.  “Lie down.  Like this, let me help you.  Sip some of this.  I’ll be right back, I’m going to boil some water.”

Elissa heard the mage being questioned outside, but Wynne would say only that Elissa would be all right, there was nothing to worry about.

“What about the blood?” Alistair demanded.  “I saw blood.”

Wynne returned, bearing two buckets, one sloshing with steaming water and the other empty.  She set both down, and removed several linen cloths from a small box in the corner of the tent. 

“Here,” she said, handing the cloths to Elissa and indicating the bucket of water.  Gratefully, Elissa sponged herself off.  Wynne placed the empty bucket nearby. 

“Wynne…” said Elissa.

“My darling child,” said Wynne softly.  “Did you know you were pregnant?”

Elissa closed her eyes.  “No.”

“Alistair.”  It wasn’t a question.

“Yes…I never thought…this would happen.”

When it came, the pain was so sharp and wrenching that Elissa couldn’t help but give soft groans.  She, who had braved the arrows and swords of the Darkspawn, could not have imagined this pain.  Cloth after cloth became soaked in red.  As she retched into a bucket, Elissa wondered if whatever had come out looked human at all.   How long did it take for a child to become a child?  Wynne whisked everything away without letting her see, and burned the bloody rags with conjured fire.  She didn’t know how long she spent curled up in the tent, only that it seemed to go on forever, and how could one person bear so much pain?  _If I’m dying,_ she thought, _please just let me do it soon. Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry._  But she continued to breathe, and eventually the pain subsided, and the blood slowed to a trickle.

“The bleeding will continue for some days, I think,” said Wynne finally.  “But the worst should be over.”

 “It’s for the best, I suppose,” said Elissa.  “I should feel relieved.  What would I do with a baby?” 

Wynne smoothed back the hair which clung in damp tendrils to Elissa’s forehead, and handed her a flask of deathroot cordial.  “Sip slowly.  This will help you sleep, and numb the pain.”

Elissa was dancing on the edge of hysteria.  She hadn’t felt this way since Ostagar, exhausted and overwhelmed and full of desperate despair.  “You know what, though?  I would have kept it.  Inconvenient—that’s an understatement, isn’t it?  But I can’t say _inconceivable_.

“I thought...I was raised…I always thought I would marry and have children.  Especially now, since my family is…gone.  I _want_ children.  I would have loved this one.  I would have raised it…him…her…I could have asked the Chantry to keep him until the fighting was over.  I’m sorry, little one.  It’s so _unfair_ , Wynne.  Maker, it’s so _unfair_.  And I just don’t understand…I can’t understand.  It seems that when something is so wrong you ought to be able to go back and fix it.  Because it can’t have really happened that way, it can’t really be irreparable.  It just seems like if I _want_ it enough I can go back, and maybe if I’d been more careful…but I can’t go back.  Why, Wynne, why can’t I go back?”

Wynne said nothing, just enfolded Elissa in her arms, allowing her robe to become soaked in hot tears and mucus.  The medicine did its work, and Elissa found herself irresistibly sleepy.  The last thing she remembered was thinking how disgusting her tent must be, and fretting about cleaning it up before anyone else saw it.

It was evening when she unclosed her eyes; she had slept through the day.  Instinct brought her struggling to her feet.    

“It’s all right,” said Wynne, handing her a bowl of broth.  “We’ll be here one more night.  One more night won’t set us back too far, and you need the rest.”

Elissa gazed at the broth meditatively.  Without looking up, she said, “I’m never going to have any children, am I Wynne?  And even if I did, they would be corrupted by the Taint, wouldn’t they?  They’d be monsters.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“But that’s what you suspect, isn’t it?”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Elissa.  Yes.” 

“Then I’ll never…I’ll never have a little baby, Wynne.  That’s all I want; I don’t want to be the last.  My mother, my father, my brother, my nephew, all dead.  And now I’m supposed to save the world?  I couldn’t even save them.  I don’t want this responsibility.”

“My dear one,” murmured Wynne.  “It is unfair, it is.  Of you, much has been asked, but so little has been given.  We can do nothing but be grateful for your sacrifice.”

“Grateful.  Keep your gratitude.  I don’t want it.  I don’t want _any_ of it.”

“I know.”

“I can’t go on.  I _can’t_.  It’s too much; I’m too weak.  I can’t do this.”

“You _must_ , Elissa.”

“Why must I?  Did you not read the dwarven journals?  The world will become overrun with Darkspawn eventually, no matter what we do.  All this anguish, and there’s not even a point to it.  We won’t even be _safe_.”

“We cannot know what the future holds.  Perhaps this is not the last Blight, but it will be if you give up.  You speak of wanting children.  No one will have a family if the Blight is not halted.  There will just be desolation and death, spreading across the realms until the Darkspawn have nothing left to feed upon but each other.” 

“But how can I go on like this, Wynne?  I can’t.  I failed.  I can’t fight anymore.  I just…this…it would be so much easier to die right now.  I suppose you think that’s horribly selfish.”

“I think that you are in a lot of pain,” replied Wynne gently. 

“Is it completely ridiculous that I thought that Alistair and I…after the Blight was over…I just thought that we could settle down in Highever.  Be happy.  Rebuild what was lost.”  She gave a hollow laugh.  “I thought I had nothing left to lose,” she said.  “But I was wrong.”

“Alistair wants to see you,” said Wynne.  “So do the others, of course, but he in particular is very eager.”

“I can’t face him right now.  Not any of them.”

“I told him you might need some time.  He’s beside himself with worry, though; it was all I could do to keep him from barging in.  He loves you very much.”

“Will it ever stop, Wynne?”

“Alistair loving you?”

“The pain,” clarified Elissa.  “The pain of loss.  Not just this loss, but all that it represents.”

Wynne thought for a moment.  “I once knew a mage who had lost his foot in a battle with darkspawn.  He had been caught in another mage’s spell, you see, cast in the thick of the fighting, and his foot was blown off.  As a result he, who had once been a battle mage in the king’s army, was sent back to the tower to be a teacher of young apprentices learning simple spells.  He was in effect relegated to the nursery. 

“He was very unhappy at first when I visited him.  He even confessed to me that he was considering asking for the Rite of Tranquility to be administered.  But gradually, he was able to regain a sense of satisfaction and even joy.  He told me that one day he had realized he would go on, and, that being the case, he might as well seek happiness where he could find it, in his pupils, in knowledge, in the company of other mages.  His terrible wound did not fully recover, of course; a lost foot cannot regrow.  A past life cannot be lived again.  But he said gradually the pain stopped being an alien burden that he struggled under and felt oppressed by, and became enfolded into his self, a part of him.

“This is perhaps a circumspect way of answering your question.  But all this is to say that, no, I don’t think the pain will ever go away completely, but it doesn’t have to destroy you.”

“How do people do it, Wynne?  How do they go on fighting in the face of so much misery and death?”

“I might as well ask you the same question.  Here you are.  How did you come to be here?”

“Not intentionally.  Did it ever occur to you, Wynne, that your friend was putting on a show for your benefit?”

“That could be true, although I do not think it is.  If so, why _not_ become Tranquil?  He must have thought there was something worthy about the life he still had.  And isn’t that, really, why you’re here Elissa, fighting for us all?  You feel that somehow this world, with all its imperfections and injustices, somehow it’s still worth saving.

“Because you’re right: so much is wrong, so much is unfair.  So much cannot be undone.  Is it better to have never lived at all?  We cannot know.  All we know is life, and once we are alive, we _want_ to live.  You are not the first woman to grieve over a lost pregnancy, Elissa, nor will you be the last.  Other women will be forced to bear children they never wanted.  Still others will watch the children they lovingly raised die.  So it will go, so it must go.”

“What about the Maker?  Isn’t he supposed to have a plan?”

Wynne sighed.  “That is what the Chantry teaches.”

“It is what I was raised to believe.”

“And now?”

“Now…I’m not so sure.  I used to love learning about Andraste and the Maker, but that when I was young, and before I knew about the Dalish pantheon, or the Qun.  How do we know who is right?  How do we know any of us are right?”

“These are age-old questions to which each tribe or culture has concocted its own answer.  But as you have learned, the easier the answer, the less truthful it is likely to be.”

“But you think there _is_ a Maker, Wynne?”

“I do, but I do not think that he spends every moment micromanaging the actions of mortals.”

“You told me earlier that the Maker sets everyone on a chosen path,” accused Elissa.

“I thought it might help you to feel better.  And some things, I think, do happen for a reason.  I also think that, once set upon the path, you are not guided down it, but left to wander on your own.”

“So it’s up to me to stop the Blight.  The Maker isn’t going to appear when it finally gets too awful and whisk me off, the way he did Andraste.”

“Would that he could, my dear one.  Would that I could fight your battles and make your sacrifices for you.  But I cannot.  What I can do is offer you what aid if in my power to give.  You are not alone, Elissa,” said Wynne firmly.  “We will fight for you; we will _die_ for you, if it will help.”

Elissa felt her eyes well up again.  “I don’t want anyone to die for me.  I don’t want to die, either.”

“I know.”

“I think…” said Elissa slowly, “I think it was a mistake to think about life beyond the Blight.  I thought it would help me carry on, but now…I’m not so sure.  It seems cruel now, to think of hearth and family.  I feel as if I must purge myself of everything but the Warden.  I am the Warden; she is me.  The Blight is all that matters.  I just…I just wish I weren’t so weak.”

“You are stronger than you know.  And when the time comes, you will do what needs to be done.”

“Or die in the attempt.”  Elissa smiled wanly.  “Probably not tonight, though.” 

“Tonight, you can go to sleep fairly confident that you’ll wake up again tomorrow,” Wynne agreed.

“One more night, at least.  What more can the dying woman ask?  Is Alistair still nearby?”

“I would be exceedingly surprised if he hasn’t been eavesdropping on every word,” said Wynne drily. 

Elissa almost smiled.  “Ah.  Well, then.  He might as well come in.”

He did immediately.  His eyes looked tired and swollen; deep circles were etched under his eyes.  Tufts of straw-colored hair stood wildly on end.    

“You look awful, Alistair.  I’m the one who’s bedridden, so what’s your excuse?” Elissa joked weakly.

He said nothing, just fell to his knees in front of her and buried his head in her lap. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“I’ll let you two have some privacy,” said Wynne, withdrawing.  Outside, they heard her shoo the others away.  For a long time, neither of them spoke. 

“I prayed today,” said Alistair.  “For the first time since I left the Chantry.  I mean, _really_ prayed.  At first you try to bargain, _Take this, I’ll do that_ , but by the end, when I hadn’t seen you for hours and Wynne wouldn’t tell me anything…I was just pleading.  Begging the Maker, begging Andraste to please just let you live.”

“Well, here I am.  I guess your prayers were answered.” 

“What can I do?”

“Nothing,” she replied.  “Or, just this.  Be here with me. Don’t leave me.”

“Never,” he said. 


End file.
